Mischief of One Kind and Another
by Alias424
Summary: Now, on an average night in the Rizzoli-Isles household, Jane was something of a bedtime rock star. But tonight. Tonight was far from average.
1. Where the Wild Things Are

**A/N: Just a little bit of fluff to start off the weekend. Enjoy!**

* * *

Those first few steps inside the door are all she needs to tell her what type of day it's been. There's no chattering or pounding little feet or excited shouts of _Mama! Mama!_ Just a few familiar chords, some swelling string music, and then vocals she's almost ashamed to admit she can sing along with at this point.

Disney music.

And not just any Disney music, but something of the more princess variety.

Of course, Maura's made sure they don't enforce any sort of gender stereotypes on their child—their house is filled with nearly as many dolls as toy cars. But boys will be boys, and with the Rizzoli genes at play, they always knew they were in for more of a wild child, no matter the gender. Samuel Rizzoli-Isles can rough-and-tumble with the best of them (nearly drove his Uncles Frost and Frankie to exhaustion during a doomed babysitting venture), but the moment he's sleepy or sick or cranky, his soft side shows through, and all he wants is _Tangled_ and _Cinderella_ and _Beauty and the Beast_.

Jane finds herself humming along to the music as she sheds her extra layers on the way to the kitchen—boots lined up next to tiny Converse (and two plastic dinosaurs), coat neatly placed on its hook, badge and gun safely locked out of reach.

Some might say she's gotten soft, but she prefers to think of it as having gained a new set of skills. She can interrogate the living daylights out of a guilty suspect with one breath and soothe her tearful son with a song, the very next. (It's an unnerving contrast she's found handy on more than one occasion.)

In the kitchen, Maura's back is to her. She's plainly dressed in worn jeans and a t-shirt, hair falling softly out of a loose ponytail. Jane's seen this sight more times than she can count, but it never fails to make her smile.

'Hey, babe,' she calls softly as she crosses the kitchen. 'I missed you today.'

Maura startles, but relaxes quickly. 'I didn't hear you come in.'

'Well, Flynn Ryder and Rapunzel are really belting it out there.' Jane caresses her wife gently, one arm around her waist, nuzzling into her neck before kissing her just where it always makes Maura's breath catch. 'That kind of day?'

'It was fine, really. Just long.'

'Long enough that you're not making him eat his crusts?' Jane asks, nodding toward the grilled-cheese sandwich Maura had been cutting into neat crust-less triangles.

'Exactly that long. And this is supposed to be for you, actually. Samuel already ate. Though to say that is somewhat generous.' She gestures toward a mangled sandwich on a plate by the sink—only a few bits missing, but the thing still ripped to shreds.

Jane holds up her hands in mock surrender. 'In that case, I'll eat my crusts without any argument.'

Maura just laughs, turning to kiss Jane on the lips and hand her the plate, crusts and all. 'It's been a pick your battles kind of day. I didn't have the energy after trying to get him to swallow the last dose of Children's Tylenol.'

'How's he doing?' Jane asks, digging in to her dinner.

'Much better. His fever broke this afternoon.' Maura peers towards the couch, lowering her voice. 'Now he's just….'

'A delight?' A raised eyebrow and a mouthful of grilled cheese, quickly swallowed.

A small smile answers her. 'Something like that, yes.'

'Ma's off tomorrow. She said she can stay with him if he's still too sick for day-care.'

Maura stops short of _Thank God_ but Jane can tell she's grateful—the morgue probably a welcome respite after two days chasing after a sick and cranky child. 'We'll have to see how he does tonight and I'll call her tomorrow morning.'

'And how are _you_ doing?' Wiping the crumbs off her fingers, Jane puts a hand on Maura's hip, thumb tracing gentle circles on her stomach.

'Fine.'

There must be some truth to it—the woman can't even lie about Santa Claus without finding some half-truth to cling to—but still… 'Maura.'

'Tired. But really, Jane, I'm—'

'Fine—I know. I'll take care of bedtime. And the dishes. You relax.' She gives Maura one last squeeze before turning her attention to the living room, where it's still oddly quiet. 'Hey, Sam the Man! Where's my hug?'

There's no response.

Then a rustling.

And a small Red Sox cap and shock of orange fluff appear over the back of the sofa—the wide Muppet grin of a stuffed Wally the Green Monster. Followed by the slow and methodical appearance of wild brown hair (never sitting flat no matter how many times it's straightened) and a pair of hazel eyes narrowed into a dark look—all three-year-old crankiness, with probably a good bit still leftover from the terrible twos. Her son rises just enough to scowl at her, then flops back down without a word.

Three seconds later, Wally comes hurtling over the back of the sofa and lands at her feet, still smiling.

Maura moves to take charge of the situation, but Jane stops her with a squeeze of her hand. 'Sam, you know what happens when you throw your toys.'

Wally is imprisoned to the far-reaches of a bookshelf, but there's not a word of apology or protest.

Just silence. And Disney music.

It's oddly foreboding.

'You're sure you don't want some help, Jane?'

Jane grits her teeth. If she can tackle a 200-pound murderer with a gun and an attitude problem, surely she can handle 25 pounds of sick and crabby toddler (even if the kid has a streak or Rizzoli stubbornness a mile wide). 'Thanks, babe, but I've got this.'

An hour later, Jane found herself wishing the silence (and even the Disney music) had stayed.

Now, on an average night in the Rizzoli-Isles household, Jane was something of a bedtime rock star. Whether exhausted from a day as a princess-robot-dinosaur or bruised and slightly battered from chasing down a suspect, she could almost always corral their rambunctious little monkey under the covers in record time. She could turn bathing and teeth-brushing into a mini-Olympics, knew just what pyjamas a superhero would wear on any given day, and could read a story with twelve different accents for twelve different characters and keep all of them straight.

But tonight. Tonight was far from average.

44 shouts (and eerily calm whispers) of _No.  
_16 defiant (and pleading) _Mamas!  
_3 wordless shrieks.  
7 silent shakes of the head.  
And 2 full-blown tantrums.

All within 47 minutes.

Bath time consisted of mostly angry splashes and tears—with water everywhere and soap in both their eyes. There wasn't a single pair of pyjamas within the entire drawer that was deemed appropriate bedtime attire (the compromise was one of her old BPD t-shirts and a pair of _Monsters, Inc._ underwear). She didn't use the correct voices for Max or the Wild Things. She didn't pull the covers up at the right angle, sing the goodnight song in just the right way, or bring the proper sippy-cup for the bedtime glass of water. And to top it all off, her goodnight kiss was apparently much too sloppy and had to be wiped away.

(And yet as the little monster put her through all this with tired eyes and crossed arms, he alternated his demands with cuddles and hugs and small fingers playing absently with hers, refusing to let her leave until she had checked twice to make sure Randall wasn't hiding in his closet.)

By the time he finally dropped off to sleep, fighting it every step of the way, and Jane made her way back to the living room, the Sox were already in the third inning, and Maura was lying back on the couch with a book.

'If that's what you had to put up with all day, I don't know how you're still awake.'

'It's close. By the third tantrum you almost get used to it,' Maura replies with a smile, setting her book down and reaching out for Jane, nodding to the TV almost as an afterthought. 'They're up by three.'

Jane lifts Maura's legs and sits down, settling them back on top of her. 'You know I love that boy more than anything, but sometimes… I just want to drop him off with my mother and leave him there for a month. Does that make me a terrible mother?'

'I think that just makes you _a _mother. He should be more like himself tomorrow.'

'God, I hope so.' Sneaking a hand under Maura's shirt, Jane caresses the soft skin there, the bump just starting to show. 'Are you sure you want another one?'

'It's a little late for that.'

'Yeah.' She runs her thumb in circles over Maura's skin, smiling wide. 'He's pretty great, isn't he?'

'He takes after his mother.'

'Both his mothers.'

Maura tugs at her, and Jane repositions, lifting her legs onto the cushions and lying back in the space beside Maura, wrapping herself around her. It's the first chance she's had to properly greet her wife since walking in the door, and they spend a few moments just breathing each other in (the familiar and indescribable scent that's so uniquely Maura is mixed with grilled cheese and Samuel and bubble-gum Tylenol, and it's an oddly beautiful combination).

Jane kisses her, slow and sweet and lazy—something like _hello, love_ and _thank you _(for this, for taking care of our cranky little boy and his soon-to-be sibling, for everything). But she knows it won't last for long. Maura's been insatiable lately, exhausted but wanting, and her tongue flits against Jane's lips, revelling once it's granted access.

'We should go to bed,' Jane manages—where there's more room to be sure, but more importantly, the safety of a closed door.

But Maura's murmuring, 'Not yet,' against her, with a fist clutched strong and desperate in her shirt, and Jane is powerless (even as she knows that _not yet_ probably means _never_).

There's a soft sigh from one of them (they've almost perfected near-silence), and Maura reaches for the hand still under her shirt, trying to push it upwards. Jane's barely touched her, and already her wife is warm and open and practically begging.

Which is why, just when she's about to press a palm to the apex of Maura's jeans, the sudden pitter-patter of what can only be tiny feet and the pudgy little hand on her arm nearly make Jane jump out of her skin.

'Mama?'

Jane's red-faced and scrambling like a caught-out teenager. 'What are you doing out of bed, little man?'

Her mini double is all accusation and crossed arms and a pouting bottom lip. 'You and Mommy's playing a game without me.'

In a manner of speaking. But there's no way in hell she's going to elaborate. Give him even a hint of something new and fun and exciting, and in three seconds he'll be demanding the rules of game-play and how to become the winner and asking when he can teach Nana and his uncles to play.

Evasive manoeuvres. Immediately.

It's 100% without a doubt an easier tactic than explaining love and lust (and pointedly where babies _don't_ come from) to a three-year-old. 'You're supposed to be asleep.'

'You need to rest so you can feel better, Samuel,' Maura adds, carefully feeling his forehead and rosy cheeks with the back of her hand. 'Remember?'

Samuel leans his head against Maura and looks mournfully up at Jane. 'I have a sad inside me.'

'Do you know why?'

He only offers her miserable and emphatic shake of the head, hiding his face in Maura's shirt.

'Well, let's see if I can find it and get it out of there.' Jane hovers a hand over the little boy, dropping it on top of his head and ruffling his hair. 'Is it here?'

'No.'

She squeezes his elbow. 'Here?'

'No.'

She reaches down, just able to grab one of his feet, tickling it lightly. 'How about here?'

'Mama! Noooo!' A small fit of giggles and a desperate attempt to hide them.

'There's only one more spot then, isn't there, Mommy? And I think we need a doctor for this one.'

'I'm afraid so,' Maura answers gravely. 'Now, stand very still….'

Samuel's eyes widen as he watches her reach so agonisingly slowly before landing her fingertips on his belly and tickling wildly. His too-big BPD t-shirt offers little protection, and he erupts in infectious little-boy laughter, dancing in place before scrambling away. Once safely out of the tickle monster's clutches, he frowns darkly, hands on his hips, but it quickly turns to a wide grin with triumphantly outstretched arms as he barrels back towards them and buries his head in Maura's stomach.

'It worked!'

'Careful of Mommy's belly, Sammy,' Jane murmurs with a grin, reaching out and lifting him carefully onto them both. 'Feeling better?'

The answer to that is apparent as he ignores the question in favour of the TV, where his beloved Red Sox have just scored and his slightly more beloved Green Monster mascot is doing a funny little dance. 'I can watch?'

He's hopeful, flashing a smile he's learned from Maura, the twinkle in his eye all Jane.

'You can listen,' Jane answers, dashing his hopes, but not completely. 'But only for a few minutes. You have to close your eyes and try to sleep.'

'How many is few?' He turns to Maura, the answerer of all tricky questions.

'A small number.' She pauses and Jane can practically see her translating her Google-speak into something more tangible as she holds up ten fingers where Samuel can see them. 'Less than two hands.'

'For right now, it's until Mama finds a good break in the game,' Jane adds. 'Eyes closed, little monster.'

Samuel obeys, scrunching his eyes tightly shut, then seeming to think better of it as he opens one just enough so he can lean forward, planting a kiss on Maura's cheek and a matching one on Jane's. Eyes closed again, he settles, and with the soft murmur of the game and Jane rubbing his back, it's not long until his breathing becomes deep and even.

Jane moves carefully, attempting to get up without waking him—Maura's forever quoting studies about children sleeping in their own beds. She's stopped by a warm palm to her arm. Maura is soft and sleepy—familiar words, a different meaning. 'Not just yet, Jane.'


	2. One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish

**A/N: I fully meant for this to be a one-shot. But then when I tried to sit down and write, I just couldn't get this little world out of my head (seriously, it's like a fluffy Rizzles dream-house in there). So I'm going to let it play out for a few more bedtimes. Don't worry, it won't go on forever—I've got about five or so planned at the moment.  
****Thanks so much to everyone who read (and reviewed!) the first part. You guys are amazing.**

* * *

It's hot.

And that's an understatement.

A sauna, the sun, and hell must have had some sort of freaky tryst—because the product of that ménage à trois is currently sitting over Boston and doesn't seem intent on leaving any time soon.

It's so fucking hot.

Frying eggs on the sidewalk hot. Baking cookies on the dashboard hot. Popsicles and pools and sprinklers hot.

And that's before taking the humidity into consideration.

With the third straight day of over 90-degree temperatures and the weekend approaching, even the city's murderers seemed to have called it a day. It hadn't taken more than a surreptitious touch and a few whispered words for Jane to convince Maura that the afternoon would be better spent away from the less-than-pleasant heatwave odours of the station—upstairs might as well been a guys' locker-room and the decomp downstairs was much more pungent than usual.

After picking up a delighted little boy early from day care, they made a quick stop for barbeque supplies before heading home—to shorts and swimsuits, frozen yogurt and lemonade, a kiddie pool and the sanctuary of shade. A perfect start to an unexpected long weekend.

Jane flips a hamburger and listens to the satisfying sizzle, glancing over at the two heads nearly pressed together over the grass a few feet away. Sleek gold curls brushing against dark, wild tufts.

Partners in crime. Of a very tame variety.

Maura's sitting cross-legged in a pair of gym shorts, a light tank top straining slightly at her expanding belly (and all but giving up any hope of containing her breasts). Samuel balances on one foot and then the other beside her, a damp arm around her neck (slippery from sunscreen and his umpteenth dip into the kiddie pool), and water dripping from his hair and nose.

Jane loves taking part in her boy's adventures—is often called upon to tumble into some imaginative stint or another (as an angry dinosaur with a guilty conscience, a pirate with an upset stomach, a rough but secretly nice cowboy). But there's something about these moments—watching Maura and Samuel interact in their own quiet way in their own little world—that always has her captivated.

'Yay!'

A swarm of bubbles floats of up between the two cohorts in the grass and the little boy claps with delight, trying unsuccessfully to catch them in his hands—exuberant when Maura manages to snag one on the bubble wand. He approaches it on tiptoe, as if the slightest motion could destroy it, and Maura just stops him from pressing his nose to its soapy surface.

'It's a tiny rainbow world!'

'It does look like one, doesn't it? The surface of a bubble is iridescent.'

He frowns, stepping around the bubble to examine it from all angles, finally settling in Maura's lap. 'It has ears?'

'Iridescent,' Maura laughs. 'Light hits all the different surfaces of the bubble and makes it look like a rainbow. The colours change when we look at it a different way.' She moves the wand and Samuel's eyes follow it diligently. 'Or when the surface of the bubble gets thinner. And if it gets too thin?'

The little boy pokes a finger into the middle of the bubble. 'Pow! It pops!'

'That's right!' Maura wraps her arms around Samuel and squeezes him gently. 'You know, I think you're the best bubble popper I know.'

'I'm the King of Bubbles!'

Jane watches her wife carefully blow a string of bubbles and their son jump up and excitedly obliterate all within arm's reach.

The second little Samuel began asking questions, Maura seemed to install a filter like it was a second (or third, fourth, fifth) language—science and Google-speak through something like a children's dictionary. In these (relatively) quiet moments when their little monkey needs a break from running and shouting and playing, he hangs on her every word. Sometimes he tries them out for himself, the many-syllabled words tangling and tripping up on his tiny tongue—other times he looks Jane straight in the eye and terrifyingly spouts off entire scientific sentences without a hitch.

Three years old going on fifteen, and already smarter than she is.

'Mommy. Make me be ear-desk-ant. Please?'

Jane can't help her grin. Maybe still only three years old after all.

'Iridescent?' Maura answers patiently with a shake of her head. 'Sorry, Samuel. You don't have skin like a bubble.'

The happy smile transforms in an instant—complete with narrowed eyes and crossed arms. 'If that baby is….' He fumbles, finally stomping his foot. 'It's not fair.'

Maura glances back at her, giving a just perceptible shake of the head to Jane's unspoken question (a tilt of the head all that's needed for _Need some backup?_). It's only been a couple weeks since they sat him down and explained to him about new babies and big brothers—all smiles and excitement. But Samuel had little interest—and though they've continued to mention or talk to him about the baby every day since, this is the first time he's brought it up of his own accord.

'The baby won't be either, Samuel,' Maura answers softly, reaching out to him with an even gentler, 'Come here.'

The little boy goes willingly into Maura's arms, and the rest of the conversation is lost to quiet murmurs, a few loud and boyish exclamations, and soon (thankfully), giggles. Jane turns her attention back to the grill, carefully placing cheese on top of the burgers and quickly grilling the buns.

'Dinner's almost ready,' she calls to where her son has his tiny hands cupped over her wife's ear, the gesture barely concealing his attempt at a whisper. 'What are you two plotting?'

'Not a surprise!' Samuel shouts, turning back to Maura to take her face in his hands, with a pleading, 'Don't tell, Mommy! Okay?'

'I promise.'

'Pinky swear?'

The ritual is carried out with great seriousness, and Sam dives immediately back into the pool with a roar. Burgers off the grill, Jane ambles over to help her wife up. 'What'd you say to him?'

'I tried to get him to talk about his feelings, but he just got very quiet.' Her furtive glance says _Just like you_, but the soft smile is the reassurance of _That's okay, Jane. Really. _and _I love you both so much. _'So I made sure he knew how much we love him and that nothing will ever change that.'

'And that worked?'

'Well, not on its own, no.'

Pulling her wife close—the rest of the conversation in a single motion—Jane automatically brings a hand over to caress her growing stomach before leading them over to the table. 'Hey, little fish, there's an extra-special cheeseburger here with your name on it. Come get it before Jo does!'

'Nooo!' Samuel splashes out of the pool darts over, not letting the fact that he is soaking wet stop him from picking up his cheeseburger and taking a big bite. 'Mama!'

'Chew your food first, Samuel,' Maura chastens lightly, rising to dry him with a towel.

He does, with great effort, bouncing with the excitement of whatever he has to tell her, and finally _finally _swallowing. 'Mama. Do you think Wally in real life is little or big?'

And that was exactly how the meal continued. With a little boy wanting desperately to eat and talk at the same time (while still eager to follow the rules of not doing so), and Jane struggling to play catch-up as one question piled on top of another.

With the exception of _Mama makes the best handburgers of everyone ever_ (a glowing review from a fussy eater), every last thing out of his little mouth was _the Red Sox this_ and _Wally the Green Monster that_. Some facts he knows. Some facts he's made up. A few TV observations. And something like half a million questions—many with fast follow-ups in the same breath.

1. _Does a Red Sox man wear red socks always? (What if his socks are blue?)  
_2. _Are they little like on TV?  
_3. _What if you have to go potty? (What if a Red Sox man has to go potty?) (What if Wally does?)  
_4. _Do you think Wally likes to blow bubbles? (Cos all monsters love bubbles, right?)  
_5. _Is Wally ear-desk-ant?  
_6. _Can my Wally meet the big Wally? (Someday just, I mean. Not tomorrow cuz it's a surprise.)  
_7. _You get to eat a real baseball hotdog at a baseball game, right?_

Etcetera forever. Or at least it seemed that way. In reality, it was more like half an hour. A very long, tiring half hour. (Jane loved every second of it.)

At last, Samuel managed to get down most of his dinner—leaving the rest in a pile of licked half-bites and smeared ketchup, as only a small boy can. And soon (after one last dip in the pool in lieu of a bath—just for tonight), he was peeled out of his swimsuit and tasked with going inside to pick out a bedtime story and try to put on his pyjamas all by himself.

He shout-sings something that sounds suspiciously like a doctored version of _Take Me Out to the Ballgame_, the words softening as he patters up the stairs to his room (the odd crescendo sounding loudly every little while).

'Babe?' Jane starts, clearing up the dishes—throwing a leftover bit of burger to Jo Friday and leaving a leaf of lettuce for Bass. 'Any idea why our son is bouncing around like tomorrow's Christmas?' She turns and raises an eyebrow. 'Or a Red Sox game?'

'I've been sworn to secrecy.' Maura grins, holding up her hands. 'It was supposed to be a surprise for both of you, but I couldn't help telling him, and he still wants you to be surprised.'

Jane takes her wife's hand, massaging the palm with her thumb and raising the arm to press her lips to the inside of the wrist. 'You sure I can't persuade you to tell me?'

'You wouldn't want me to break a pinky swear, would you?'

A statement that seems to edge toward joking, but it could easily be an honest-to-goodness question (Jane holds back her smirk just in case)—some things may change, but others will always stay blissfully the same.

'Well, I guess when you put it that way.' Jane tugs Maura to her, running a hand just under her shirt and nipping at her neck.

'Jane.' A warning. The tone always identical, whether pointed at Jane or their three-year-old. 'Unless you want to explain to him—'

A kiss, somehow both gentle and searing—open-mouthed immediately and searching tongue, hot and quickly flitting, but the fingers that land at the back of Maura's neck stay so soft and light and like _I love you_. Jane pulls back just enough to speak, her hand still tangled in Maura's hair. 'What? That his moms love each other? If the kid doesn't know that by now then maybe we should get his eyes checked.'

It's Maura who pulls Jane to her this time, with a smile against her lips. And it's not until they hear the familiar pattering of little feet coming closer that they break apart, slowly, with a few linger nips to bottom lips and cheeks and corners of mouths.

Seeing his mothers close and cuddling is just a way of life to the little boy, and he barrels into their legs, thinking nothing of interrupting one of a million witnessed kisses. 'Ready!'

Jane lifts him so he can say goodnight to Maura—a sloppy kiss, a chirped _Love you, Mommy!_, and little arms around her neck not wanting to let go. After fixing his t-shirt (both inside out and backwards), some tooth-brushing races, and a nearly-memorised bedtime story (a firm favourite ever since the kiddie pool had been filled), Jane's tucking the little boy under the covers.

'Are you asited?' he asks, with drooping, sleepy eyes that somehow still have a gleam of exhilaration shining in the corners.

'About the new baby?' Jane asks, smoothing the blankets over him—every time they get an in like this, they take it. 'Very excited. Me and Mommy both are.'

Samuel yawns. 'What baby?'

Well, that's not good. But it could be worse.

'The baby in Mommy's belly.' She tickles his tummy through the blankets. 'Remember?'

'Oh.' Samuel makes a face and sighs. 'It's still there?'

And _there's_ worse. That hadn't taken long.

'Yeah, buddy. You'll have a new brother or sister in time for Christmas.'

'Instead of presents?' He seems horrified at the very thought. And no wonder.

'No, you'll still get presents. Listen, Sammy—'

'_No_, Mama.' It's firm. He's had enough of this conversation, and she doesn't want to push him (baby steps in preparing one baby for another seem fitting, and there's still time). 'Are you asited about seeing real-life Wally and Red Sox tomorrow?'

Taking her son to Fenway for the first time? Of course she is. Without question.

But Samuel's burst of excitement melts to devastation quicker than a popsicle in the summer sun—his sudden misery seeming even sadder for the contrast. 'It was posed to be a surprise. For Mama and Sammy time.'

Jane will do anything to see his little face brighten with that wide and innocent smile again. And this fix is easy.

'Don't worry, little man. Your secret's safe with me. You and Mommy can tell me again tomorrow and I'll be super surprised. Watch.' She waits until she has his attention before widening her eyes and mouth in exaggerated mock surprise. 'The Red Sox and Wally?! With Sam the Man?! I can't believe it!'

The little boy laughs—a beautiful, musical sound (and even though genetics make it impossible, she swears he's gotten that from Maura)—and mirrors her comically. 'I'm gonna do it too!'

'But you're already supposed to know, silly!'

'That's why it makes it a super-duper good surprise!'

Jane smiles—she can't argue with that—and leans forward to kiss both his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. She ruffles his hair as she stands and makes her way to the door. 'Night, buddy. You go right to sleep. We have a big surprise day tomorrow.'

The light clicks off, and a little voice rises out of the nightlight semi-darkness. 'Mama?'

'Yeah, Sam?'

She thinks it will be for a drink of water, another kiss, an extra tuck of the covers—anything to stretch out the moment where he'll actually have to give in to sleep. But instead….

'Don't bring that baby tomorrow. Okay?'


	3. If You Give a Mouse a Cookie

**A/N: Jane and Maura are the slightly naughty ones here, so beware if that's not your thing.  
Thanks in advance for reading, and if you have a second, I'd love to hear what you thought!**

* * *

Maura's brow furrows adorably as she taps at her lips with the tips of her fingers, her bottom lip catching between her teeth for just a moment before popping free. She's shifting from one foot to the other in front of the freezer—looking for something that obviously isn't there.

Jane folds her arms over her sports bra, the sheen from her just-finished workout finally, thankfully, beginning to cool. 'Lost your keys again?'

The attempt at humour dangles between them. The house is oddly quiet with Samuel gone for the day—just the ticking of a clock, the hum of the refrigerator, and the soft scraping of Maura searching fruitlessly behind frozen meat and vegetables.

'Why isn't there any more ice cream?' Hands on her hips now, and a frown.

_Tread lightly, Jane…._

'I think… I might have had some last night?'

Dammit.

The inflection's wrong—it's a question. So close. (And so far away.)

Maura's amused, at least, and there's something almost like a smile as she finally gives up her search and closes the door. 'That's sweet of you, but we both know it's not true.'

'This kid has a sweet tooth, huh?'

Samuel had been all salt and sour. Pretzels and pickles and French Fries laden with so much vinegar that Jane nearly choked whenever she tried to steal one.

'It would appear so, yes.' Maura offers a sheepish half-smile, her hand caressing her stomach instinctively in soft swirls and half-circles. 'I try to satisfy it with fruit or yogurt, but sometimes….'

'There's nothing wrong with a little ice cream.' Or even entire cartons of it—though that part is wisely left unsaid. Jane puts her arms around her wife, resting her chin on her shoulder, lacing Maura's hand through both of hers. 'I'll run out and get you more. You want that dark chocolate again or something different this time?'

'Something different.'

'You liked that crunchy peanut butter one. With mint chocolate chip.' Jane makes a face at the memory. 'And that weird jam.'

But what Maura wants is much more simple (or maybe, actually, miles more complicated).

'Vanilla.'

There's something in the way she says it, turning her head so her mouth nearly meets Jane's. And Jane has half a breath to think _Well, that's easy (and much less revolting), _but the other hinges on a sudden _oh_.

_Ohhh_.

And _Took you long enough, Rizzoli_ isn't that far behind, because Maura suddenly has her by the wrist, and Jane's hand is under her skirt (dresses are easier now for many reasons—this one remains high on the list). And even though the angle isn't as straightforward now as it would have been a few weeks or months ago, it's well worth the extra bit of finagling to make everything work.

Because searching fingertips to (unexpectedly) soaked cotton is always a crazy-beautiful thing. Doesn't matter how many times it happens.

'Jesus.' Jane fiddles her fingers out of habit, and Maura sighs at the pressure. 'How are you so wet already?'

Like that's even a question—this pregnancy has Maura insatiable, the most mundane things setting her off (sometimes at the worst possible times).

'I was watching you spar.' Maura turns in her arms, sacrificing Jane's touch (knowing she'll get it back later). 'You're always so focused. And you have beautiful form.'

But as she says it, she ghosts fingers over Jane's bare ribs, her stomach, dipping into her navel. And _form _becomes _everything_ and Maura kisses like it's part of the conversation. Lips breathing a quick _hello_, tongue dipping back into _beautiful form (and everything)_ as it just skims against her mouth, and then it's nothing but _wanting _and _waiting _and _yes, all afternoon, just please…._

Easing Maura back against the refrigerator door, Jane presses, open-mouthed, to the hollow of her wife's throat and hums against her quickening pulse. As Jane's tongue darts out, tasting salt (and something like chocolate) and the distinctive tang that's all Maura, plain and simple, her palm sweeps a lazy maze down a shoulder, detouring to breasts and cleavage before skimming back along an arm, a side, a hip—finally waltzing up the inside of a tensing thigh.

In moments like this—fervent and impatient—Maura is all music.

A sigh (anticipation, some frustration), a pounding pulse, a hand smacking against the door behind her in quick counterbalance and the squeak of the fingers sliding, a soft murmur as Jane hits at a perfect nerve. (The anxious shifting of her hips acting as the conductor, trying to keep it all in a neat rhythm that Jane won't let her have.)

'Jane….'

The moan gives it a glorious edge that it wouldn't usually have.

Jane presses harder and _just-right-there_ against cotton so that her name carries forever and drags into husky incoherence. So that Maura won't be able to think in terms of time or science-speak or medical jargon. So that the only forms of measurement are friction and fingertips and _fuck, Jane_….

It doesn't take long until Maura's gasping against her. (And even after that, it doesn't take long until quivering hips are quickly thrusting forward once more and kisses swing from sloppy to _Jesus, again_.)

But Jane pauses. Always needing a moment to stare—to approve of everything and forget nothing and wonder how the fuck she got so lucky as to have _this woman _let her touch her like this (with broken hands and callused cop fingers). Maura is restless. Always. But lets her have this moment (even as her hips have other ideas, flitting in a quick little jig that's all but begging for that first push past cotton and dipping inside.)

And then there's something else.

Jane grins, wide and euphoric. Moving her hand so that a palm presses to feel the stirring and emphatic kick of their baby, no doubt wondering what all the sudden fuss is about. Then the same palm cups Maura's cheek as Jane leans in to kiss her, soft and slow and full.

It's the pause (and the kick) that saves them.

Without it, the intimate scene in the Rizzoli-Isles kitchen would have been far more intimate, indeed.

'Janie? Little dude was losing steam fast, and this bag is—'

'Take one more step, Frankie, and you'll be sorry!' Her voice is hoarse. In a way that cannot be mistaken for anything but what it is. Maura stills. Almost.

And they're insanely lucky there's a corner and a wall between the kitchen and the front door. The architect deserves a medal.

'Ah, jeez, Jane. _Again_?' There's more panic than exasperation in Frankie's voice (she'd never ask and he'd never admit it but there's an 85% chance that the last similar encounter left him with a view of about that much of Maura's left breast). 'You had all damn day. Can't you keep your hands off your wife for like five minutes?'

'Just hang on a second!'

'I'm not waiting here with _your son_ so you can—'

'No, you perv!' She smoothes down Maura's dress and gives her one last peck on the lips in apology. Or at least that's the intention.

But then Maura's murmuring, 'I need to go upstairs for a moment and…' with a funny little helpless gesture as she scurries from the room. And Jane's left silently standing there, open-mouthed and stupid—a white-knuckled fist to the edge of the counter almost all that stops her from following.

She takes a deep breath (or two—trying not to picture just where her wife's fingers will be at this moment… or the next), washes her hands, and splashes water onto her face. Grabbing a sweatshirt, she throws it on and steels herself for a thousand three-year-old questions as she heads to the foyer to meet her brother—something like relief hitching her voice when she sees her little boy with his head on his uncle's shoulder, dead to the world. 'He's asleep.'

Samuel's denim overalls have wide circles of dirt on the knees and backside, his long sleeves blotched with many more colours than the blue and red of their stripes, and there's a gummy splodge of something around his mouth that dribbles down his chin and carries over onto his hands. It looks like a true boys' day out, if there ever was one.

'Out like a light as soon as we hit the highway,' Frankie answers before giving her a pointed look. 'You'd think having this little guy running around would've tamed you two.'

'We have a kid, Frankie. We're not dead.'

'You're like freakin' teenagers.'

'You're just jealous.' She elbows him in the ribs. 'Are we're not discussing my sex life.'

'Oh, trust me, I'd love to have no reason to discuss your sex life. I'm not that lucky.'

But then a familiar little voice (fortunately with the attempt at a repeated word misheard). 'Are you talking about snacks?'

'Your Mama's favourite snacks,' Frankie gets in quickly, with a shit-eating grin a mile wide.

'You're cruising,' Jane mutters as she swats him, with a dark look she hopes says _I'm not afraid to make you cry like a girl. _But it flashes to a smile as her little boy reaches out to her, practically jumping into her arms. 'Hey, Sam the Man. How was your Big Brothers' Day?'

'Uncle Frankie used to be little and Uncle Tommy used to be a baby. Did you know?' He says it accusatorily, as though it's some big secret they've been keeping from him his whole little life.

'I did know. And Uncle Frankie likes Uncle Tommy, doesn't he?'

'He…' Samuel glances at his uncle, the next word coming out slowly, as if he's afraid of getting it wrong, '… tolerates him.'

'Frankie!'

'What? I'm not gonna sugar-coat it. But Tommy's a good guy, right, little dude?'

Samuel nods. 'He has TJ and TJ wrestles me and sometimes I can win.' He take's Jane's face in his hands, his little fingers grimy and sticky and suspiciously cotton-candy-scented. 'Can I have a snack?'

She shakes her head, the _no _loosening his grip. 'It's late, buddy. Time to get ready for bed.'

'Please?' Complete with puppy dog eyes and folded hands. 'My belly's hungry. Hear it?'

She turns to Frankie. 'You did feed him, right?'

'Of course I fed him, Jane. What kind of uncle do you think I am?'

'I throwed up my corndog!' Samuel announces proudly. 'You could still see the hotdog pieces.'

Of course this, of all moments, is the one that Maura chooses to enter the room. Jane's 'He threw up?!' crashes into her wife's 'You let him have a corndog?!' The amalgamation must be something to behold, because Frankie has his hands in the air, surrendering to the wrath of two protective mothers (and edging slowly away from the pregnant one).

'The rides were a little too much for him. But he's fine! He had a funnel cake like right after!'

'And some of Uncle Frankie's French fries. And cotton candies! It was blue! But that was like a million of minutes ago and now I need a snack.'

'Here, Samuel.' Maura reaches out for him and he lunges into her arms—he's on the verge of not fitting there any longer, but he hasn't seemed to have noticed. She throws a dark look over the little boy's head—Jane's pretty sure the split for the direct line of fire is something like 60/40 between her and her brother. 'You can have some goldfish crackers.'

'And some milk?'

'And some milk.'

'And some cookies?'

'No cookies.'

Jane turns back to Frankie with folded arms as her wife and son make their way into the kitchen, their voices dimming slightly as the possibility of _just one little cookie? _is offered and denied. 'Maura packed him healthy snacks.'

'It's a fair, Jane. I wasn't gonna force-feed the kid apple slices and carrot sticks while I was downing fried Twinkies. That's how you make a kid hate you.'

'You could have _not_ had the…. You know what? Never mind.' So much fried food and sugar might not have been part of the Rizzoli-Isles fair-going experience, but it was 100% plain-old-Rizzoli, and she's sure her son wouldn't have wanted it any other way. 'Thanks for taking him.'

'No problem. You know I love hanging out with the little dude.'

'Any luck with the big brother stuff?'

They'd tried everything—pictures and stories from when Samuel himself was a baby, even colourful accounts from Nana about her three little monkeys (and much more subdued ones over video chat with Grandmother). Sometimes they managed to pique his interest; most other times, he'd rather be zooming cars around the hardwood floors.

'I tried. Kid's a tough sell.'

She moves so she can peer into the kitchen, where Maura is still trying to clean dirt and cotton candy from… basically everywhere, while Samuel makes quick work of his snack. 'You got that right.'

'He shot me down faster than you do. Had an answer for everything, and I didn't even understand half of them. I swear, it was like I was staring at a mini-you and getting a mini-Maura lecture. It was kinda creepy.'

Jane punches her brother's arm lightly—half affection, half mama-bear. 'Don't call my kid creepy.'

'You know what I mean. He's great, Janie.' It's not a cover—he would walk through fire for his nephew, and Jane knows it. 'This next one's probably gonna be a Maura-clone that throws spitballs and trounces that one on the basketball court.'

The thought makes Jane smile. 'Well, I should probably let you get back to your regularly-scheduled Saturday night. Frozen pizza and video games, right?

'Shut up.'

'Sammy, say goodbye to Uncle Frankie!'

'No!' Little sneakers squeak as they patter quickly across the floor and Samuel takes hold of his uncle's leg. 'I want Uncle Frankie to do my goodnight and read my story!'

'You don't have to,' Jane whispers to her brother.

But Frankie just grins, swinging the little boy up into his arms as if he's light as a feather. 'You got it, little dude.'

Goodnights are said and hugs (and instructions) are given. Jane has an arm around Maura as they watch the two big brothers start up the stairs, and she pulls her closer to murmur, 'Did you take care of your little problem?'

'For the moment.'

Read as: _I am no where near finished with you, Detective. _And _I hope you're armed and ready._

Jane swallows at the picture of the past (Maura locked in their bedroom, toes curling—biting her lip as she makes herself come) and the much more rough-and-ready, sheets in a tangle on the floor, and one-two-three times gasping encounter that's sure to be their not-so-distant future.

At the top of the stairs, Samuel listens intently as Frankie whispers something in his ear, turning back to his mothers with a serious expression and a pointed finger. 'No funny business, Mama!'

With a smile and a blown kiss, they disappear. There's one beat. Then two. And Jane isn't disappointed to hear a softer echo tumble down the hall to an uncle who's surely regretting what had seemed such a hilariously clever decision: 'What's funny business?'


	4. The Runaway Bunny

'But why do you get to be Uncle Frost and I have to be Papa Vince?'

'Seriously, man. It's been three years. Get over it.'

'It still bothers me. Do I look old enough to be that kid's grandfather?'

'You don't want me to answer that.'

'And Uncle Frost isn't shacking up with Nana, _Papa_ Vince,' Jane adds, entering the room and the (familiar) conversation, and handing each of the men a bottle of beer.

She hasn't completely given up on the Dirty Robber—Maura would never let her. But her nights there have lessened significantly, and at least once every few weeks, the boys show up at their door with a six-pack and some sort of food. (Jane teases that they miss her—they insist on silly excuses like the bar being too crowded.)

Tonight was the result of an earlier off-handed comment in the bullpen—something about finishing the nursery and putting together the crib this weekend. And just like that (and just in time for dinner), she had found her partners at the door with a toolbox big enough to build a house.

It should have taken twenty minutes. The men had been at it for forty-five, and still the crib was nowhere near safe enough for a full-grown man, let alone an infant.

'Shacking up?' Korsak tightens a screw with a grunt. 'She's living with _me_. In my house. In a committed adult relationship.'

'Committed?' Frost scoffs, holding up the sides of the crib while Korsak searches for another screw. 'When are you gonna put a ring on that, man? Jane had Maura locked down and knocked up in like fifteen minutes.'

'Yeah, after pussyfooting around her for like four years.'

'Pussyfooting,' Frost repeats, and all work stops immediately. 'That's really the word you're gonna go with here?'

Korsak's face is a question mark—and then his eyes go wide. 'Now why do you have to go and make that dirty?'

'You're the one who said it.'

'And you're the one who made it pornographic.'

'You're _both_ gross,' Jane declares, sitting back in the rocker and taking a swig of her beer. They won't let her do much more than hand them tools—she's allowing them enough time to secure them in their manliness before she jumps in and finishes everything. 'Happy?'

'All I want to know is when Korsak here is gonna turn your mother into an honest woman.'

'Angela doesn't need me to be an honest woman,' the older man answers quickly, his ears turning red. He tries to continue construction, but Frost snatches the screwdriver from his hand.

'So you're gonna ask her?' Frost dangles the screwdriver out of reach, dipping it down and quickly pulling it back again.

'I didn't say that.'

'So she already shot you down?'

'I didn't say that either.'

'So what I'm hearing is—'

'No, no, no, no, noooooooooooooooooo!'

The tiny voice increases—Jane spins just in time to see a miniscule Batman, complete with blanket cape, tear down the hallway—and then decreases again. A slamming door completes the scene, and the house falls into heavy silence.

Maura appears in the doorway with an apologetic smile. 'Jane?'

She's nearly at the door already, taps her wife's hip as she exits past her. 'Excuse me, boys. Important business.'

'Give a shout if you need backup,' Korsak offers, having finally secured the screwdriver and gotten back to work.

'Yeah, we can send mean old _Grandpa_ Vince in there to sort him out.' Frost manages to dodge the older man's hand as he swats at him.

'Thanks,' Jane throws over her shoulder. 'I think we've got this.'

Jane presses a palm to the small of Maura's back as she leads her down the hall. Their bedroom door looms large before them. One wrong step or word and it could quickly become a portal to tears and kicking and screaming.

'You sure we can't just leave him in there to cool down for awhile?' Jane's hopeful even though she already knows the answer. 'Maybe he'll just fall asleep.'

'I don't know what happened. He was fine until I started his story, and then he just…' Maura trails off and waves a hand at the door.

'Transformed into the tired-and-cranky version of himself?'

'Yes. But it was instantaneous.'

'Was this before or after he put on his Batman pjs?' Jane teases.

'After.' Maura's matter-of-fact. 'Does it matter?'

'No, babe.' Her hand slide's to Maura's hip so she can pull her close, and Jane kisses her wife's temple softly. 'Just trying to work out the timeline for the transformation into Tantrum Toddler. He doesn't have any sort of utility belt, does he?'

'Not unless stuffed animals count.'

'I think we're safe.'

Jane turns the handle on the door, slowly, clearing her throat as she swings it open so their little boy won't be caught off guard. In the few minutes since Tantrum Toddler had slammed himself inside their room, he'd managed to cobble together some sort of rudimentary lair. Their usually neatly-made bed is a messy pile of pillows and sheets and blankets, a bare foot and a small, angry voice all that peek out amongst the mess. 'No coming in!'

'Nice try, bud,' Jane responds as they carefully approach his base, ready to fend off any pillow-projectiles. 'It's our room.'

'_You_ can come in.' Half his face appears in the crack between two throw pillows, revealing half a tiny glare that quickly disappears back into the darkness. 'But no Mommy.'

Maura steps back—their son has been so hot and cold around her lately that she's on tenterhooks—but Jane grabs her hand and pulls her back to her side. United they stand. Always. And it's time to get to the bottom of all this. 'Strike two, mister. Mommy and I make the rules around here, not you.'

'You can't even be able to find me anyway.'

Oh, adorable little-boy logic. _If you can't see me, I can't see you. _If only life were ever that easy.

Jane tickles the his exposed foot, the resulting giggles compromising the fragile infrastructure of Fort Samuel and sending pillows toppling. He appears with a huff amidst the wreckage, arms folded over his beloved Batman pyjamas. For a moment, she thinks he might cry. But instead he screws his face into a look trying so hard to be sinister—an enormously tricky feat when all he's got to work with are endearingly pint-sized features and pinchable cheeks—that Jane has to cough to cover a laugh.

Taking a breath, Jane pushes pillows aside, easing Maura onto the bed and sitting beside her. She pats the space between them, but the invitation is not accepted. 'Now spill it, little man. What's going on?'

'Don't want to.'

'Sorry, but it's talking time.'

'Jane,' Maura murmurs into her ear. 'The books say you shouldn't force him to—'

Jane interrupts her with a soft kiss. 'The books never met a Rizzoli. You know better than anyone that you sometimes have to sit us down and force us to admit we have emotions.'

'Point taken,' Maura answers, taking Jane's hand and squeezing it. 'Time for a family meeting, Samuel.'

He's suspicious. 'Even that baby?'

'Yes, Sam.' Jane reaches back and plucks him from amongst the pillows, setting him on her lap. Despite his dark look and still-folded arms, he goes to her easily. Even snuggling against her. 'Family. Me, Mommy, you, and the baby.' She points to each of them in turn, giving him a quick tickle and Maura's stomach a soft caress. 'Now why don't you tell us how you're feeling?'

Samuel heaves a sigh, not happy with this arrangement at all. His mothers wait in silence—quiet cuddles to the little boy, the growing baby, each other. The patience pays off. Small fingers take Jane's, holding them tightly, and a tiny head leans against Maura's arm.

'Mad and sad,' he finally responds, stopping to consider his own answer before adding, 'and thirsty.'

'Well the thirsty's easy to fix.' Jane tousles his hair. 'Mad and sad about what?'

Samuel drops Jane's hand, turning in her lap to face her. 'Why don't _you_ take care of that baby some of the times?'

The tiny burst of anger and accusation, so concentrated in her direction, is unexpected. Jane sits with her mouth open, momentarily stunned, and it's Maura that fields the question. 'Soon that's exactly what's going to happen. We'll all take turns caring for the baby.'

Samuel only glances at her, all his attention still on Jane. 'It should be _now_. You said about sharing, and that baby is always with Mommy. And there's no more just Mommy and Sammy time ever.'

'Samuel.' Maura pulls him as close as she can—he doesn't fit in her lap anymore, and he knows it. 'I'm helping the baby grow, but I'm still spending special time with you. I'll always spend special time with you. The baby won't change that.'

'But the baby is taking my special time _now._' He tangles his fingers in her hair, batting at it like a kitten at yarn. 'And it gets to hear my special bedtime stories.'

Maura throws Jane a fleeting look, a gentle smile, taking a second to brush her fingertips along Jane's back before pulling their boy into a tight hug. 'I'm sorry if it seems that way. But you know it's not going to be very long before you get to spend special time with the baby.'

'Inside your belly?'

'No,' Maura laughs softly. 'When the baby comes out, you'll get to hold him or her and be our extra special helper.'

Samuel seems to consider this. They've used this line before and he seems open to it, but there's always been something missing—the last little bit that will strip away that final stubborn streak of hesitation. This time, Jane finds it easily, doesn't know why they've missed it all along.

'_Especially_ with reading bedtime stories. The baby won't know the good ones, so you'll have to help him—'

'Or her,' Maura interjects.

'—or her—pick out the best ones.'

'Really?' Samuel tilts his head, the crossed arms gone and furrowed brow softened. 'Any story I want?'

'Only if you're up for it,' Jane adds, casually. 'It's a very important job. I don't know many big brothers that could pull it off.'

A pause. She holds her breath. Lets it sink in.

Samuel is silence and contemplation. For all of three seconds.

He jumps up and bounces excitedly on the bed, to a soft _Careful _from Maura and a _Watch it, monkey_ from Jane. 'I can do it! I can do it!'

'I bet you can.' Jane pulls him into a hug, kissing the top of his head.

'Do you feel better now?' Maura asks.

'Maybe.' The little boy answers slowly—in a voice and with a smile that's clearly a _yes_. 'Can I pick a story for the baby for tonight?'

'Sure.' Jane helps him scoot onto the floor. 'Go say another goodnight to Uncle Frost and Papa Vince. And make sure you tell Papa Vince he's the best grandpa ever. Mommy and I will be right in and we'll all read your bedtime story together.'

'Okay!' he chirps, already scrambling out of the room.

Jane laughs as she watches him leave, standing and helping Maura to her feet. 'Jesus.'

'What?'

'The kid lashes out at you for weeks, and it's all because he wants to spend more time with you.'

'I know.' Maura knocks her with an elbow. 'Who does that sound like, I wonder?'

Oops.

Tree, meet your apple.

'Are you saying I was as bad as a three-year-old? Really?'

Though seeing a miniature comparison before her, and thinking back to… five? six?... years ago, when flirting alternated with cross words and jabs and teasing that sometimes crossed the line into cruelty….

There had been little difference between a confused and sexually-frustrated Jane Rizzoli and an elementary-schooler taunting his crush with pulled-hair and toads on the playground. (Well, except for what would transpire beneath the sheets—and on the couch and in the shower—late at night when Jane was alone and lonely, and Maura was on her mind and gasped from parted lips.) It hadn't exactly been one of her more shining moments.

And yet without it, they might not be standing here (together) at all.

'I'm saying you were worse.' But Maura's kissing her, gentle and fleeting. 'You were lucky I agreed to go out with you after the way you acted.'

'Lucky? Maura, you practically jumped me in the bathroom of the Robber.'

Damn right she was lucky. And she says it without having to say it at all (always)—a hand caressing her wife's cheek, a thumb running along the jawline.

'Practically, Jane?'

It had been a Tuesday. After two dead kids and their mother—their father found swinging from the rafters of his childhood home.

It had been raining—hard—and she remembers this moment whenever she feels Maura's damp hair on her fingers. (Sometimes, she even lets herself remember how harsh her own voice had sounded as she'd snapped something at Maura that she can never quite recall. And how her heart had felt like it had crawled into her throat to die as she found herself guiltily slinking after the doctor into the restroom.)

Her apology had ended up as a single syllable and an _oomph_. (Maura will never let her finish it, even now.)

And Jane had been up against the door in half a second, with Maura's hands beneath her blazer and mouth hot and needy against hers, while the roar of bar noise dimmed to a buzzing and even the shouts and banging against the door went unheeded—it had been far more than practically. And thank God for that.

There's a deliberately loud knock and a hesitant, 'Jane?' as Frost pokes his head in the open doorway, a hand over his eyes.

'Oh relax, Frost.'

'I'm not taking any chances. I know what you two are like.' At least he removes his hand—but the way he quirks his eyebrows with a knowing grin is probably worse. 'Your offspring is asking questions about babies that Korsak and I don't really feel qualified to answer.'

'Half the time _I_ don't feel qualified to answer his questions.'

'Janie!' Korsak sounds laughably desperate. He walks haltingly into the hallway with Samuel hanging off his arm, finally stopping to swing the little boy up into a big bear hug, with laughter and shouting on both sides.

'He wants to know where the baby's ears are, doesn't he.' Maura phrases it almost as a question, but lilts the ending in such a way that there can only be one answer.

'Uh, yeah?' Frost is all but scratching his head.

'It's a logical progression. And they're here, Jane. Approximately.' Jane finds her own warm hand in her wife's cooler one and pressed to Maura's stomach. Maura nuzzles into her neck for just a moment before tugging her past a still-bemused Frost to where their son is reaching out for them and chattering loudly. 'Come on. You can show him.'

* * *

**A/N: The next chapter should get the show on the road a bit. I've two more chapters planned out for this - though I'm still trying to figure out if there's a third one kicking around in there. Thanks so much for reading!**


	5. Garfield and Peanuts

'Sam.' She gives it a second. 'Sam.' And again. 'Sam!'

If there had been any doubt as to whether anyone within shouting distance _didn't_ know the little boy's name, the last half hour had erased it. 'Sam, if you don't stay by me, you're going to have to go back inside!'

It's snowing.

But those two words only serve to conjure up Norman Rockwell-like images of sleepy towns in light, white dustings; kids on sleds and building snowman; business as usual but with everything covered in an extra layer of Christmas magic.

It's _fucking_ snowing.

And that's the difference.

For days, the damn weathermen kept throwing around words like _nor'easter _and _megastorm_ and _blizzard_. All in giant blue and white capital letters made to look like they're shaking with the cold. Everyone in the greater Boston area had dutifully stocked up on flashlights and bottled water and groceries. And crossed their fingers, praying that this was just more weather channel scaremongering.

It wasn't.

It really fucking wasn't.

Though _blizzard _and _mega-storm _might have been slight exaggerations, the foot of snow that had fallen since morning was definitely more than a simple dusting. And while a very pregnant Maura seemed to be taking it in her stride, the whole situation set Jane's teeth on edge.

'Sam, I'm not kidding!'

To a three-year-old hyped up on impending Christmas festivities, who knew nothing of due dates and snowplow schedules, the storm had turned the outside world into a veritable winter wonderland. Samuel spent most of the day staring out the window at the fat falling flakes, searching for elves and talking snowmen and candy-cane-striped North Poles. (Often joined by Jo Friday, the two of them with their little paws on the windowsill and noses pressed to the glass.)

And begging—_begging_—to be allowed outside.

By late afternoon, after over a foot of snow and two tantrums, the flakes were still falling thickly, and Jane was starting to feel just as cooped up as her son. Tired in actual fact and of Jane continually asking her if she was all right, Maura had retired to their room for a nap. So far, Jane was finding that alternating pacing the room with games of Candy Land was doing little to stop the storm.

It was the latest bout of folded hands and overly-exaggerated smiles (and at least fifteen _pleases_) that clinched it. At the very least, going outside would expend some pent-up energy—at best, she could give the path and cars a first clearing so it would take less time tomorrow. Jane dressed herself and her excitedly-squirming son in their Maura-approved snow gear, and as she shovelled the heavy snow aside, Sam struggled to make his way through the depths—so bundled up in his snowsuit and hat and mittens, that he looked like he came straight out of _A Christmas Story._

'Sam, what did I say?'

'Stay by you?' he calls back sweetly, flopping down in a snowdrift.

'And where are you now?'

'Over here.'

'And where should you be.'

'Over there?'

'Bingo.' Jane had managed to hack a shovel-wide path to the car and attempts to brush off the windshield, a shower of snow landing on a pom-pom-topped hat that bounces up beside her.

'Hey! Mama!'

She dusts him off, squeezing him to her leg in a one-armed hug. 'Sorry, buddy.'

'Can we build a snowman now?'

There's so much hope and excitement in his little face that she hates to shoot him down. 'Tomorrow, buddy.'

'Like in five minutes?'

'Tomorrow. It's getting dark and we have to go back inside as soon as I finish this.'

'Jane?' Maura's standing in the open front doorway, the buttery glow of the light in the house behind her only serving as a reminder of just how dark it is already.

Jane waves in acknowledgment, lifting Samuel out of the heavy snow and into the path she's just shovelled. 'Sammy, go see what Mommy wants, okay?'

The little boy obediently trundles towards the house as Jane finishes sweeping the bulk of the snow off her car—not that it matters now, the plows won't bother to make an appearance on side streets like theirs until much later, and what the main roads look like is anyone's guess.

A minute or so later, Samuel plops down beside her and immediately starts to make a snow angel. 'Mommy said to tell you…' he pauses, his arm-wings slowing as he thinks, '… she needs you to help with her clock and her numbers.'

'With her numbers?'

'Yeah.' The little boy jumps up to stare at her thoughtfully. 'She said five minutes and subtractions.'

Wait. Twist some of that around and it starts to make a very specific type of sense.

'Sam.' She drops everything and crouches down beside him. 'What exactly did Mommy say?'

'She said, Samuel, tell Mama….' He scooping snow into a pile now. 'I don't remember the rest exactly. Only five minutes of subtractions.'

Jane glances at the thin coating of snow that's already covering her newly-cleaned car, the disappeared road, the flakes still falling. 'Shit.'

'Shit,' Samuel agrees, delightedly, punching down his little snow-castle and trying the word out again. 'Shit.'

And this is just what she needs right now.

'Sam, you can't say that.' She picks him up and they start back towards the house.

'You did.'

'I shouldn't have. It's not a nice word.'

'Why?'

'Please, Sam.' Inside now, she takes off her gloves and starts peeling the little boy out of his wet and snowy layers. 'Just don't say it again.'

Her tone must make him wary, because he just nods and reaches out to hug her. She pulls him close and holds him tight, breathing in his little-boy scent as his cold and rosy cheek presses into hers. 'Sorry, Mama.'

'It's okay, Sammy. I'm sorry too.'

The little boy is reassured easily, pulling away from her and busying himself in trying to feed clumps of snow to Bass. The tortoise—not surprisingly—is having none of it.

'Maura?' Jane practically tears herself out of her boots and sprints into the kitchen, slipping in her socks. 'You okay?'

Maura is… making hot chocolate? The old-fashioned way. With warm milk and a saucepan and fancy chocolate squares swirling as they melt. She's humming Christmas carols, swaying lightly to _White Christmas_.

'Jesus, babe.' Jane feels her whole body relax on an exhaled breath, and she wraps her arms around her wife, nuzzling into her neck—where the next breath in is flavoured with warm milk and chocolate and Maura. 'Sammy said you were having contractions. What did you tell him?'

'Hot chocolate! Hot chocolate! Hoootttt chooocolaaaaaate!' Samuel sings it to the tune of _Jingle Bells_ as he climbs into his chair to await his treat. The song continues—with _marshmallows_ and _Santa Clause_ and even _Jo Friday_ making guest appearances in the lyrics right next to usual twists like _bells on Bob's head ring_.

'I am.' Maura finally responds. 'But don't—'

'When did they start? How long do they last? How far apart?' She fires it all so fast that it's barely three separate sentences.

'Slow down, Jane. There's no need to panic.'

'I'd say the two feet of snow outside means there's _some _reason to panic.'

'We have to panic?' Samuel's eyes are wide. 'Why?'

'We don't, honey. Mama's just being silly.' Maura pours hot chocolate into Samuel's special mug and turns to Jane. 'Do you want some hot chocolate?'

'What? No, I don't want some hot chocolate. Maura….'

Maura puts a finger to her lips, nodding to Samuel. 'Babies are born at home every day, Jane. They have been for centuries.'

It's that quiet voice again, so sensible and soothing that Jane finds herself letting the tone comfort her before she's fully processed the words. 'Yeah…. Wait, what? No. Absolutely not.'

They've done all this before, obviously—the proof of that successful endeavour blissfully unaware and slurping hot chocolate just a few feet away. But somehow the snow and unplowed roads and a curious three-year-old have amped her nerves up to eleven. (And if she's being completely honest with herself, she was probably close to somewhere like ten-and-a-half even without all that.)

Yes, babies are born every day. Other people's babies. Not hers. Not _theirs_.

Maura's sudden grip on her hand is like a vice, her strange breathing pattern familiar, and Jane counts fifty-four silent mississippis before everything relaxes. She feels a helpless urge to run around the house amassing a stockpile of towels and boiling water. 'When was the last one?'

'Five minutes ago. Maybe five and a half.'

'Five minutes?!' She says it too loudly and Samuel shoots them an alarmed look over the top of his steaming mug, his hot chocolate moustache curling into a worried frown. Jane tries to give him her most reassuring smile, keeping her voice quiet. 'For how long?'

'On and off for most of the afternoon.' Maura's expression is somewhere between guilty and _this is perfectly the way it should be, Jane_. 'It's only in the last hour that they've gotten especially painful, but I can breathe through it.'

'You should have said something!' A harsh whisper that she's trying so so hard to make not sound severe.

'I wasn't entirely sure they weren't Braxton-Hicks. I didn't see the need to worry you.'

'Worry me? Maura—'

'Jane, I love you, you know that.'

'But?'

'But you had us at the hospital with Samuel when I was barely two centimetres dilated. And now with another child and the weather today—'

'I would've packed us all away to the hospital before you even finished the word contraction.'

Oddly, Maura doesn't seem to think that would have been to their advantage. 'Exactly.'

'Mommy!' Samuel pipes up. 'We're gonna make a huge giant snowman tomorrow. And a snowdog. And a snowcat. Right, Mama?'

'We'll see, buddy.'

'But you said. Outside, you said.'

'I know, Sam. I know. We'll see.' Jane sighs as her son pouts at her, and she runs a hand along Maura's shoulder. 'I'll figure this out. I just need to make a few calls.'

'Jane. Don't worry.'

And magically, she didn't.

In some alternate universe where the sun was shining and the roads were clear and her wife wasn't in active labour while their little son peppered them with worried questions.

In reality, things were slightly more harried. Close to forty-five minutes passes. To Jane, it feels something more like three years and also three seconds—there was way too much time, but also not enough.

Eight phone calls, a grabbed bag and a _Cars _backpack (both already packed), a quick dinner for a little boy who was in heaven with a sacred can from Mama's secret stash of SpaghettiOs, many (slightly closer and seemingly more painful) contractions, and everyone shoved into warm clothes and coats and boots.

With a coughing rumble, the snowplow slows to a halt at the end of their driveway.

Samuel thinks this is better than Christmas, his birthday, and that one springtime boat ride combined. They may as well be at an amusement park. The truck's driver is a saint. Not just for coming to get them while off duty, but for answering the little boy's seemingly endless questions with something almost bordering on enthusiasm.

Time crawls. Seconds and minutes can't be trusted—they're twisted into hours and years and microseconds. It's easier to measure time's passing through the steady stream of _What's that? _and _What's this for? _and _Why's this here?_—sprinkled with patient and surprisingly thorough answers.

Twenty-three questions by the time they finally pull up to the hospital.

And Jane now knows more about snowplows and ice and salt and sand than she ever thought possible.

Maura and Samuel and bags safely waiting on the sidewalk. That part's more or less easy. Jane presses money into the hands of a driver who doesn't want to take it, giving him her mother's address and a promise of her arrival within the hour. Once inside, a hurried conversation has them in agreement that Maura needs to be able to continue through her labour without having to hide the pain, and Samuel should remain as happily ignorant as possible.

After making sure her wife is settled, Jane finds herself like a sixties father in the waiting room—except with a three-year-old instead of a cigar.

Samuel has a million questions, wants a million snuggles, and is finally pressed into choosing from amongst the motley assortment of pamphlets, papers, and magazines for a distraction disguised as an early bedtime story. Jane checks her watch as her son nestles against her chest, only gets through two comics in the Sunday paper when a nurse hurries into the room.

'Jane Rizzoli?'

Her cop-sense is tingling immediately, prickling at the base of her neck and running down her spine. 'Yeah?'

'You need to go in now.' The young man's apparently well-trained, his face impossible to read—it's only his diction that gives him away: _need_ not _can _or _should_, and that slight emphasis on _now _that just edges into seriousness.

Jane drops the newspaper, clings a bit tighter to Samuel—torn between needing to let him go and wanting to keep him as close as humanly possible. Her brain shapes sentences faster than her tongue can cobble together the words, and she's left stuttering. 'I can't—My mother isn't—I—'

'Go ahead. I'll watch your boy.' He throws Samuel a grin and a, 'Hey, pal, how's it going?' a hand at the ready for a high five he never receives.

This seems like both the right and wrong answer at the same time, but Jane concedes, standing, and setting a frowning Samuel down on the chair. 'Sammy, buddy, this is….'

'Troy.'

'Troy. You stay with him until Nana—'

'He's a stranger.' Samuel is pointed and wary, eyeing both her and the smiling man in the crisp uniform, and not trusting either.

Yes, he is. Absolutely. Ordinarily this would be one of those breakthrough parenting moment—her small son perfectly parroting lessons they've tried so hard to make sure he learns. But she doesn't have time to debate the rules of childhood and when they can be bent.

'Troy's been helping Mommy, and now he's going to help us. I need you to be a brave boy, okay?'

'No.' It's in his tiniest voice—the one reserved for nightmares and thunderstorms and possible monsters. His arms cling around her neck as she bends for one last hug, and it physically hurts to have to pry his fingers away. 'Please, Mama?'

'Super brave, Sam the man.' She plasters on a smile, knows he sees right through it. 'Tell Troy about your snowplow ride! I'll be back as soon as I can. I promise.'

Jane rushes out the door—but she isn't fast enough to keep from hearing her son burst into tears behind her.


	6. Once Upon a Time

Forty-eight hours.

And what a difference they make.

Not just in heartbeats and breathing and an epic increase in exhaustion (sleepy relaxation and gratefulness and never wanting to let either of them go). If hour one was a harried and broken signature on a surgical consent form, then hour forty-seven was smooth flowing script on discharge papers.

Now, the roads are cleared. The sun shines. The blanket of white over Boston looks homey and inviting—like hot chocolate and wool mittens, nights wrapped in blankets in front of a crackling fire. And Christmas is so close around the corner that everything is sprinkled in an extra bit of happiness and good cheer, the scent of pine needles and sugar cookies on each inhalation.

Forty-eight hours.

And she's almost forgotten the sheer terror that surrounded words like _foetal distress_ and _emergency caesarean_. The way she'd nearly tripped over her own feet trying to don the flimsy gown while Maura chattered nervous Google, the facts only amplifying her anxiety. How she tried (and failed) to keep her voice from breaking at one of the most frightening sentences any parent can utter: _Why isn't she crying?_

There was oxygen and hushed voices, a small wail that was magic and quickly escalated to red-faced and pissed-off and screaming—tiny feet and fists hammering. And that right there was the soundtrack to smiles and _congratulations, mommies! _that felt a bit like Valium after a heart-in-your-throat thirty minutes. Finally given the all-clear, Jane found herself with that delicate little howling thing in her arms—feeling more than a bit helpless and not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

Forty-eight hours.

And Ava Rizzoli-Isles is a little spitfire already. Without a doubt. All six pounds and eight ounces of her.

Jane runs a hand down her wife's arm, flicking her eyes over just in time to see a lazy smile—Maura is sleepy and sore and so so happy (they both are). A glance in the rear-view mirror shows their daughter still fast asleep. All the fuss and urgency and a bit of extra just-in-case time in the hospital—and now the little bundle sits snugly swaddled in a newly-knit blanket, nose crinkling with a squeaking yawn.

They pull into the driveway, greeted by an army of snow-creatures of various sizes and species—their family and friends had had their work cut out for them, that much is sure. A familiar face is pressed against the front window—squished nose and fogging glass and fingerprints. He's waving like mad, but disappears before Jane can return the gesture. She grins to herself, helping Maura out of the car and carefully lifting the sleeping baby.

Samuel's shouts and laughter make their way through the closed door, and the second it's opened, he only has eyes for one person. 'Mommy!'

A slight sniffle (probably more from the cold than an actual cold itself) and the looming winter threat of flu season had kept him tearfully away from the maternity ward. Though she had stayed at the hospital, Jane had made a point to visit him for some morning and evening playtime, but he had had nothing but phone calls and video chats with Maura.

The separation was obviously trying. He wants to jump right into his mother's arms, frowns when a chorus of _No's _and _Careful's_ stops him. Maura removes her coat and takes his hand with a reassuring smile, easing herself onto the couch with a slight pained grimace and patting the cushion beside her. Samuel crawls up, wary now, slow and careful as a small boy could possibly be. 'Did you miss me?'

'Of course I missed you, Samuel. So so much.'

'But I can't hug you?'

'You can hug me, you just need to be very careful.'

'Why?'

A shadow looms suddenly over Jane as she struggles with the straps on the infant carrier, and the rest of the conversation is lost in a flurry of tomato-sauce-and-meatball-scented excitement. 'Let me see my granddaughter!'

'You saw her a few hours ago, Ma. She hasn't changed much.' Jane finally frees the baby and lifts her out of the seat. 'And you probably want to put down that spoon first.'

Flustered, Angela shoves the sauce-covered spoon into her apron pocket. 'Oh, but she's beautiful, Janie. She has your nose.'

'You know that's not possible, right?'

She says it and _knows _it. But still there's part of her that looks down at the baby in her arms—and if she turns her head just right, there's her own nose, maybe even her chin, with Maura's hazel eyes hidden beneath the closed eyelids and the beginnings of blonde wisps of hair.

'Oh shush. I know my own daughter's nose when I see it. You got it straight from my mother, and now it's right here on little Ava's face, plain as day.'

'You'd think it'd be plain as the nose on her face.'

'You think you're funny, missy.' Angela tries to frown, probably doesn't realise she's still smiling. 'Just because you finally gave me a granddaughter doesn't mean—'

'Okay, okay,' Jane concedes with a quick nod. 'She's got my nose.'

'And Maura's eyes and ears. You two make beautiful babies.'

She might be biased, but that fact is irrefutable.

'Thanks, Ma. Hey, can you hold Ava for a bit while I say hi to Sammy, and then bring her over in a few minutes?'

Angela has the baby in her arms almost before Jane can finish. 'Spend some time with this little angel? Of course.'

The rest of what she has to say devolves into coos and baby talk as Angela cosies up to her newest grandchild, probably already telling her embarrassing stories about her mother. Jane leaves them, crossing the room to where her wife and son are snuggled up on the couch. The conversation there is going about as well as could be expected.

'I promise, Samuel,' Maura soothes—and from the emphasis, it sounds like not for the first time, 'I'm all right.'

'But for sometimes, you were sick.'

'Yes. For a little while.' Of course Maura can't lie here—even when it would be far easier to say that everything is and always will be rosy. 'And Ava too. But we're better now.'

'And now your belly's sick and I can't touch it.' It's in the whining, near-tantrum voice with which they've become intimately familiar. Jane steps around the sofa just in time to see the little boy cross his arms defiantly, eyes narrowed with dark suspicion. 'Did that baby hurt it?'

_That baby_ again. A phrase they've managed to escape for quite a while.

'No, Samuel.' Maura raises her eyebrows to Jane, a clear SOS even without the Morse code.

'They had to take Ava out of Mommy's belly,' Jane adds, sitting beside her son and wrapping her arms around him. 'Hey, little man.'

'Hi Mama.' Samuel turns his face towards her pitifully before hiding in her shoulder. 'Look what that baby did. Mommy's sick.'

It's undeniable that Maura is pale and sore and tired. But it's better to just explain everything away as a quick and vague _sick _than have to sort out the specifics of surgery—or, when the boy's tiny head makes some kind of sense of the details, implicate the baby any more than necessary.

'Mommy's not sick anymore, buddy. She's just needs to rest. Don't worry—in a few weeks she'll be running after you again.'

'That's forever.'

Of course—a three-year-old's week might as well be a lifetime.

'I think you'll survive that long.' If a subject change doesn't do the trick now, it never will. 'Did you have a good time with Nana and all your uncles? I saw like a million snowmen outside.'

He nods vigorously. 'We made cookies and snowmans and a card. Oh!' Jumping off the sofa, he runs over to the table, grabbing a fistful of papers and returning to climb back onto her lap. 'Here.'

The slightly wrinkled paper is folded at a less-than-perfect angle (which makes it even better). There are three familiar stick figures that hold starring roles in many of his drawings, but he loves to describe them and they love to hear what he has to say.

'There's Mommy.' He jabs a finger at the first figure: a large circular head filled with big greenish eyes and a bright red smile. A wave of yellow along the outside and straight lines of arms and legs of varying lengths.

'I knew it,' Jane says with a smile. 'It looks just as beautiful as Mommy.'

Maura reaches over their son to run her fingers along the back of Jane's neck. They spell out _thank you_ and _I love you_ and _you're gorgeous too even though you'll never admit it_ in nonsensical swirls and circles instead of letters.

'So that pretty lady must be Mama,' Maura nods to the front of the card where one arm of her own replica reaches far enough to touch the stick-arm of the second figure, its eyes and hair dark, the grin a lighter pink.

'Yep!' Samuel is ecstatic at the recognition. 'And you hold hands cuz you're in love.'

'You got that right, buddy.' Jane twists to kiss the soft skin of Maura's inner forearm. 'So that means this big handsome guy has to be….'

'Sammy!'

The third figure looms large—a giant stick-Samuel, towering above both his mothers and making the tiny circle with four little lines just to the right of him look almost like a spider squished onto the page. Jane points to the scribbled speck, already has an inkling of what it will turn out to be.

'What's this?'

Samuel shrugs. 'The baby. Nana said to draw it.'

'Why's she so small?'

He's immediately on the defence. 'Cuz she's tiny. And I'm bigger than her.'

Fair enough.

'It's a lovely picture, Samuel.' Maura smiles at him, taking her hand from Jane's shoulder to squeeze his leg.

'You didn't see the inside. It's a card. Cards have insides.'

'Of course,' Maura says softly. 'Why don't you open it for us?'

He does, with great ceremony. Inside, a giant red heart takes up the entire page—one side much larger, the other just squeezed to fit. Within it, are three large letters: SAM. 'Nana helped. She did the letters on another paper and I did it on this paper.'

'I love it, Sammy.'

'Thank you,' Maura adds.

'You know who else loves her card?' Angela's overly enthusiastic as she swoops in, knows just what's needed here. 'Little Ava! Why don't you say hi to your sister, Sammy? She's so excited to meet you!'

Jane reaches for her daughter and her mother hands her over, somewhat reluctantly. The baby is warm and solid and secure in her arms—it's going to take much more than forty-eight hours to get over those few minutes where they thought they might lose her.

Samuel scrutinises his new sister with a frown, poking at her blanketed body. 'She can't even see me. She's sleeping.'

'New babies need a lot of sleep,' Maura explains. 'You did too after you were born.'

'You can't be asited if you're sleeping.'

'Well… that's true.'

'Does she even know about me?'

Jane decides to field this one. 'We told her all about you. Her big brother Sammy. I'm sorry you couldn't meet her sooner.'

Angela touches Jane's shoulder. 'I'm gonna leave you two mommies with your babies. Dinner is in the kitchen. I'll be back tomorrow.'

Knowing her mother, _dinner_, in the singular, is probably an understatement—their fridge and freezer more likely than not packed with enough food for the neighbourhood. Jane couldn't be more grateful. Exhaustion is looming, and she hasn't realised how hungry she is until the mention of food.

'Thanks, Ma.' She flashes her mother an appreciative smile. Soon, the front door closes with a soft click, and the baby stirs in Jane's arms, still asleep but only just. 'Do you want to hold her, little man?'

'No.' He pulls his knees up to his chest to make it impossible. 'You sure it's not a boy baby?'

'Sorry, Samuel.' Maura shakes her head, tousling the little boy's hair. 'What's wrong with having a sister?'

'It's a girl,' he responds, glumly stating the obvious. With two mothers, Jo Friday, and now a new sister to contend with, he and Bass are vastly outnumbered.

'Mommy and I are girls,' Jane tries. 'You like us.'

'You're not girls. You're _moms_.'

Jane tries not to laugh, but that's a battle that's not meant to be won. Maura fares better. For the first few seconds—but then Jane catches her eye, and all bets are off. Jane tries desperately to stop—for the sake of the frowning boy between them and Maura's healing stomach—but it's that crazy, infectious, nonsensical laughter that just hast to run its course.

Samuel, however, is immune. And demanding. 'What's so funny?'

Luckily, they're saved from explanation (and excuses). Ava's eyes have snapped open in the commotion and she lets out a squawk. Samuel's on his knees immediately, bending over his new sister with grave suspicion.

'Look who wants to say hello.' Jane props the baby's head up so the little boy will have a better view.

'She can't talk.'

'No, she can't,' Maura agrees. 'But she can say hello in a different way. Touch your finger to her palm. Carefully.'

Jane can tell he doesn't want to. Tonight, he's all three-year-old stubbornness, and not without reason—he's no longer his parents' main focus, and that's never an easy blow to take. But his hand is twitching—wanting to obey, fighting not to—and curiosity wins out in the end. His finger brushes against the baby's and a tiny fist closes around it.

'Whoa!' The perfect little _o _of surprise and wonder melts into a smile. 'She's strong for a tiny!'

'It's called a reflex,' Maura explains. 'It's something babies do automatically when they feel or hear something.'

'And cuz she likes me?' He's so hopeful, peering back at Maura with those big hazel eyes so that there can only be one answer, even if it ends in hives.

Maura doesn't disappoint. Ever. 'And because she likes you.'

And that does the trick. (With barely a welt or any redness or itching.)

'You know, Sammy,' Jane starts with a grin, wishing they could stretch out this moment forever, 'it's time for your important big brother job. How about you go pick out your little sister's first bedtime story?'

Reluctance returns, a shadow casting over his face and taking the edge off pure joy. But Samuel hasn't taken his eyes off his sister, and his next question makes all the difference in the world. 'How about if I just _say_ her a story? About Sammy who's Batman and rides a snowplow to the Red Sox.'

He doesn't want to let go of her hand.

'I think that's a great idea.' Jane catches Maura's eye—her wife's sleepy smile radiant. 'Go ahead.'

'Okay. Once upon a time, Sammy and…. Wait.' He stops, frowns, glancing from one mother to the other, his questioning gaze finally landing on his new sister. 'What did we call her again?'

* * *

**A/N: And that's that. I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you so much to all of you who stuck around for this. You made my day with your follows, favourites, and comments. Thanks again!**


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